THIS ABOVE ALL
Treat for book lovers
Khushwant Singh
I
keep a record of the books I read. On an average I read between 30 to 40
every year. Some I review for The Outlook, others I mention in
the two syndicated columns I write for papers every week. This year, I
have already read 39 and still have a few days to go and may add a
couple more to my list. They cover different topics: pure (or impure)
fiction, fiction mixed with facts, politics, biographies, religion,
mysticism and pornography.
Two I rate as first
class are facts-cum-fiction : Diddi : My Mother’s Voice by Ira
Pande (Viking-Penguin) is a combination of the Hindi writer Shivani’s
life with a selection of her short stories based on profiles of the men
and women who came into her life at different times. Likewise Mira
& the Mahatma by Sudhir Kakkar (Viking-Penguin) is an account of
the relationship between Mahatma Gandhi and his chief English disciple
Madeline Salade, daughter of an admiral who took on the name Miraben and
the goings on in the Sabarmati ashram. It was published last year; I
read it this year.
Tarun Tejpal has an eye for detail |
For pure fiction, I can
recommend Tarun Tejpal’s Alchemy of Desire (Harper Collins) and
The Red Carpet by Lavanya Sankaran (Review). Tejpal’s main
characters are a highly sexed couple who perform acrobatics like randy
mountain goats on plains and hills. Other characters equably high on
libido, homo and hetro, go in and out of his story. He has an eye for
detail, knows his flora and fauna and can be very amusing when
reproducing dialogue as he does between two Sikh truck drivers on their
first visit to Delhi. Lavanya Sankaran is a new name in Indo-Anglican
writing which will be heard in years to come. The Red Carpet is a
collection of stories and profiles of men and women based in Bangalore
and mostly employed in high-tech businesses earning handsome salaries.
She is a gifted writer who wields a light pen.
However, much the
greatest event in fictional writing about India was Salman Rushdie’s Shalimar
The Clown (Jonathan Cape). Like most of his earlier fictions, his
latest is unbelievable. Untrue yet unputdownable.
There was a spate of
books on Jinnah, the Partition and Pakistan, largely triggered by L.K.
Advani’s about turn describing the Qaid-e-Azam as truly secular
person. It brought about his political downfall and discredit to the
BJP, but revived interest of publishers. Of the many I waded through, I
recommend Radha Kumar’s Making Peace with Pakistan (Viking
Penguin). She is objective in her analysis, optimistic about our
relations with Pakistan and writes lucid prose. One biography which all
Indians should read is the life and achievements of Varghese Kurien
written by Gouri Salvi: I Too had a dream (Roli).
Besides these books, I
also read M.J. Akbar’s yet unfinished manuscript Victoria Jute
Mills, renamed Blood Brothers. It is his family history from
his grandfather who left Bihar as a Rajput Hindu boy in his teens,
settled in Bengal, converted to Islam and made his fortune. From what I
have read (his last chapter remains to be written) it has the makings of
a bestseller for 2006.
Ghalib obsession
In the last three years’
time I got to know him, he rang me up everyday from Chandigarh to
enquire about my health. There was no call after November 10. I wondered
why he had lost interest in my well-being. A note from his niece solved
the mystery of his sudden silence. He had died that morning. He was an
old man and yet a lot younger than me. And in better health than I am.
This was Arjan Singh who had been Chairman of Coal India based in
Asansol. On retirement, he made Chandigarh his home.
Our acquaintance began
with a note written by him in calligraphic-perfect Urdu about his
interest in poetry, particularly that of Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. I
was at the time struggling to translate some of Ghalib’s couplets into
English: he is as obscure as he is brilliant. So the correspondence
began. His letters starting with a few paragraphs went on steadily
increasing in length, till they became 50 pages each: nothing about
himself or affairs of the world, only about Ghalib. My replies remained
a few lines on a 10-paise post-card.
We met a few times:
first when he dropped in to see me in Delhi on his way from Asansol to
Chandigarh. He looked like a sardar in his late seventies or early
eighties. Small snow-white beard, white turban and a slight hunch. He
had a soft, gentle voice which often became a mumble, hard to follow. I
marvelled at his dedication. He told me he would have his thesis on
Ghalib published in English, Urdu and Hindi, no matter what it costs
him.
Two encounters last
year remain etched in my mind. He drove up to Kasauli with a friend to
have afternoon tea with me. I invited a young couple interested in
poetry to join us. No sooner the tea was over, that Arjan Singh began
reciting Ghalib’s poems he knew by heart. He went on for over an hour:
no one got a chance to interrupt. He paused for a while and asked me if
he could rest for half an hour before resuming his recitation. My
patience was at an end. "No, Arjan Singh Ji," I said firmly,
"I’ve had enough to last me a year. Now you must leave and let me
get on with my work." He looked hurt but quietly hobbled back at
his car to return to Chandigarh. I thought he would never speak to me
again. I was wrong. He resumed his daily calls to enquire after my
health. He asked me when he could come up to Kasauli again. "Next
summer," I replied, "I am returning to Delhi in three
days." I made the mistake of telling him I would be taking the
evening Shatabdi from Chandigarh.
As is my habit, I got
to Chandigarh railway station an hour before time. I entered a crowded
waiting room. Sardar Arjan Singh was waiting for me with a bundle of
papers in his lap. He resumed talking about Ghalib. Then said, I am
travelling with you to Delhi so that I can finish what I have to. I lost
my cool. "Arjan Singh Ji, you are doing nothing of the sort. I want
to relax, enjoy my drink and dinner. I’ve had enough of Ghalib."
Without a word of farewell, he got up and walked out of the waiting
room. This time I was sure it was the last time I would hear from him. I
was wrong again. He resumed his daily calls enquiring about my welfare
till the last day of his life. No doubt he knew by heart his hero’s
immortal lines when his heart stopped beating:
Rau mein hai rakht-e-umar
Kahaan deykhiye thamein
Na baagh hai haath mein
Na paa raqaab mein
(Life travels at a
galloping pace
Where it will stop, we
do not know,
We hold not its reins
in our hands
Nor have our feet in
the stirrups.)
I wonder what will
happen to the reams of passages he had written on his singular passion
for the poetry of Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib.
Life’s like that
My father was serving
on the Fort, Allahabad, the year my sister was born. Maids were
interviewed, and finally, mother settled for the illiterate, eccentric
widow Ramvati as she was good with the baby. Ramvati could not memorise
my father’s surname, Bahuguna, so mother picked up a large cooking
vessel and advised her to tell the sentry at the gate that she was an
employee of Major BHAGONA.
Next morning, Ramvati
failed to show up. As father was leaving the Fort premises on some
official work, he heard a series of hysterical shouts from Ramvati at
the Fort gate, complaining that the sentry on duty wouldn’t let her
in. When father yelled at the sentry, the baffled chap replied,
"But sir: she’s been insisting that she’s an employee of Major
PATEELA".
(Contributed by Smita Agarwal,
Allahabad)
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